I’d been dating her for six months before I realized I’d never once stepped inside her place.

She’d been to mine plenty of times—knew which cabinet held the good mugs, which floorboard creaked near my bedroom. But whenever I suggested going to her place, she’d laugh it off. “It’s nothing special,” she’d say. Or, “Another time.”

At first, I didn’t push.

Then curiosity did what curiosity does.

One afternoon, after she casually mentioned the neighborhood she lived in, I looked it up. A few days later, on impulse, I drove there.

I wish I hadn’t shown up unannounced.

Her house was a tiny blue cottage squeezed between two tired apartment buildings. The paint was chipped. One of the front windows had a strip of duct tape sealing a crack. From the sidewalk, it looked forgotten.

I stood there longer than I meant to.

She always looked polished—hair styled, nails neat, clothes carefully chosen. She didn’t carry herself like someone living somewhere patched together with tape.

I knocked.